The First Steps into the Unknown
The wooden planks of the dock groaned under Yeaia's cautious footsteps as they stepped off The Future. The scent of the sea still clung to them—salt, damp wood, the lingering trace of old ropes—but it was quickly swallowed by the city's own aroma. Toscarter smelled of damp stone and burning coal, of fresh bread carried on the wind and the bitter tang of metal.
The city was alive, yet not in the careless, open way of Nas or the bustling trade-hub chaos of Bayam—atleast from what he heard from the crew. Here, movement was deliberate. People weaved through the streets with a sense of purpose, a rhythm that felt just a little too practiced. Merchants called out their wares with voices that barely echoed, their eyes always watching something unseen. The conversations—spoken in a mix of crisp Loenese and accented Intisian—never lingered too long.
Toscarter was a city of closed doors and second glances.
And now, it was the city where Yeaia stood, alone.
They exhaled slowly, forcing their hands to stay loose at their sides.
They had left Gehrman Sparrow and Anderson Hood behind.
No ship to drift along with. No crew whose chaos they could sink into. No external force pushing them forward.
Just Toscarter.
The path ahead was entirely their own.
The realization was both liberating and unsettling.
'So… what now?'
Yeaia gazed at the bustling city in front of them. Feeling hesitant but somewhat determined.
'It's just a city, filled with paths...unknown...at least to me...heh heh.' Yeaia lampooned.
They took a breath and moved forward.
---
The streets of Toscarter twisted rather than simply stretched. Unlike Bayam's orderly districts or Backlund's rigid avenues, this city had grown in layers, each street built atop the remnants of something older. Narrow alleyways veered suddenly into open courtyards. Stone pathways shifted unpredictably into wooden bridges arching over still canals.
Yeaia walked with measured steps, absorbing the city's quiet contradictions.
Vendors lined the streets, but their calls were never quite desperate. A butcher sharpened his knives with slow, deliberate strokes, watching the passersby more than his own stall. A seamstress unraveled bolts of deep indigo and dusk-red cloth, fingers smoothing over the fabric with a care that felt almost reverent. A street performer juggled silver coins instead of knives, his movements too precise, too practiced, as if he were measuring the weight of each piece before letting it fall back into his palm.
Despite everything, Yeaia didn't feel lost.
Not yet.
There was something in the air—a pull, like an unseen thread winding between the streets. They let themselves follow it, steps guiding them deeper into the city's heart.
They stopped in front of a small shop, its wooden sign slightly tilted, swinging gently in the breeze. Inside, a man haggled over the price of trinkets that seemed too old for this world—lockets with faded inscriptions, rusted keys with no doors, dice with one too many sides.
Yeaia reached into their pocket, fingers brushing over coins and notes that were not their own.
A parting gift.
They had found the small pouch tucked into their belongings before leaving The Future—no note, no explanation. Just a quiet acknowledgment from Gehrman, Anderson, and the crew that they would need something to get by.
No words. Just action.
They huffed a quiet, almost amused breath.
'Fine. I won't waste it.'
They turned, slipping back into the moving tide of the city.
---
It happened in a quieter part of Toscarter.
The market's hum had faded, replaced by the muted stillness of an older district. Here, the buildings leaned slightly inward, as if the city itself were listening.
Yeaia sat at a small tea stall, blending into the background of travelers and merchants. The tea was warm, fragrant—but something else stirred at the edge of their senses.
A flicker.
A shadow at the corner of their vision.
Not quite there.
'Is someone watching me?'
Yeaia took another slow sip, not reacting.
Another flicker.
Not paranoia. Not imagination.
'Now I'm sure...I thought I was just overreacting because I'm alone now but....'
Something—or someone—was watching them.
They set the cup down, fingers resting against the rim for a moment before they shifted their gaze, scanning the street without moving their head too much.
The usual crowd moved along, faces impassive, steps practiced.
And yet…
There.
A figure at the far end of the street, half-hidden by a hanging cloth.
They weren't doing anything remarkable. Just standing there, posture relaxed.
Too relaxed.
Yeaia met their gaze.
The figure didn't flinch.
Then, slowly—deliberately—they smiled.
And disappeared into the alleyway.
'Am I supposed to follow? Should I...? Well...'
Yeaia sighed, pushing the cup aside.
'…Alright.'
They left a few coins on the table and followed.
---
The alley smelled of old rain and damp stone.
No sign of the figure.
But Yeaia knew better than to assume they were gone.
Each step was careful, measured. Their mismatched eyes flickered between the dim light filtering from above and the shadows shifting along the walls.
Then—
A voice.
"Not many would follow so quickly."
Yeaia didn't turn immediately.
'Maybe if you weren't waving your flag of "please pay attention to me", I wouldn't have followed you...' Yeaia lampooned.
Instead, they spoke evenly. "You were waiting for me to notice."
A chuckle. "Sharp."
From the darkness, the figure stepped forward.
A man, dressed in dark, unassuming clothing. He wasn't a noble, nor a common street merchant. Something in between. Someone who knew how to move unnoticed, but didn't mind being seen when he chose.
"I was curious," he admitted. "You're… different."
'Different...why do they all say that? Is it because of my pathway?'
Yeaia tilted their head. "You don't even know me."
He smiled. "True. But I know those who don't belong."
'I feel like I'm speaking to a charlatan...'
Yeaia's fingers curled slightly. "And what do you want?"
The man spread his hands. "A conversation."
A pause.
'But... aren't we having a conversation already...? Well, If that's all....'
Then—
"…Fine."
---
The man introduced himself as Elias.
No last name. No title. Just Elias.
He led Yeaia to a quieter part of the city, where the streets stretched thinner, where the weight of watching eyes felt less immediate.
"I watch people," Elias said. "It's a habit. Or a job, depending on how you look at it."
'I feel like that's a very perverse habit or job...do you have nothing better to do?'
Yeaia studied him. "Which is it?"
He grinned. "Depends on the day."
"And today?"
Elias chuckled. "Today, I'm just curious."
He didn't give much away. Only hints—suggestions that Toscarter had layers beneath its surface, that if Yeaia was truly searching, they might find something in the places where reality blurred at the edges.
No solid answers.
Just threads, waiting to be pulled.
'He really is a charlatan...'
Before parting, Elias offered a final remark:
"There's a bookstore in the western district. Small place. If you ever feel like chasing ghosts, you might find something there."
A pause.
"Or maybe… the ghosts will find you."
Then, with a knowing smile, he disappeared.
Yeaia stood there for a long moment.
Then, with a resigned shake of their head, they turned back toward the city.
Figures.
'Since they said something about a bookstore, why not go there? It's not like I have a destination...it doesn't look like a trap either...maybe...?'
Feeling resigned, they continued walking. Maybe they'll find the bookstore.
Now, their path had already begun to unfold.